open covenants of peace, openly arrived at
by Bag Of Badgers
Summary: Something along the lines of that "You used to be so big" scene, except with Austria and Veneziano. The German brothers make a cameo appearance. The evening sunlight is golden and kind on the gardens of Versailles, and Veneziano wishes it wasn't.


The evening sunlight is golden and kind on the gardens of Versailles, and Veneziano wishes it wasn't.

It's not fair; that the weather should be so beautiful when Veneziano wants so badly to cry and hit something, that Veneziano should be here in stupid Versailles in stupid France because of a stupid war he hadn't wanted, that—that he's thinking like a child when he's done being one. Romano, if he were here next to Veneziano on the edge of one of the wooden tree-boxes instead of still indoors screaming at some diplomat, would probably tell him he was being petulant and sounding like a little kid. Romano would also agree that none of this was fair, and all of it was complete and utter shit, Veneziano, this is the kind of trouble you're always dragging us into, you and your stupid fucking Germans—

"Shut _up_ ," he says miserably, before remembering that Romano isn't there. They're not _his_ stupid Germans. He didn't ask for them. Veneziano didn't ask for the war, either, and yet here he is. Lately, Veneziano has been ending up with a lot of things he didn't ask for. And not many of the things he _did_ ask for, and that's why he's outside of Versailles instead of in it right now, because for all Romano's cursing and blustering Veneziano is the one in danger of just—losing it if he sits through another meeting where the nation of Italy is passed over for rewards, reparations, aid, things they had been _promised_. He should have known better than to believe England and France about any of this.

Veneziano came outside to get a little less angry, not work himself up more. He bites back the bile rising in his throat, the old clutch of _empire_ that remembers having so much more than Zara. Drumming his heels against the wood, he attempts a rhythm, and gives up.

 _Stupid France, stupid England, stupid Austria, stupid me, stupid me…_

No. No. He's not going to work himself up. Veneziano just about forces his face up towards the sun, telling himself _see, isn't today beautiful, it even makes Versailles pretty and you've never liked it here!_ It doesn't work very well, but at least he's a little bit warmer.

Behind him, footsteps crunch over gravel, along with something else. Veneziano doesn't turn to look. Probably it's diplomats. He remembers biting one, back in—was it 1479?—and wishes he was small and cute enough again to get away with it (although he hadn't even got away with it that time, the Doge had threatened to put him on a leash), God only knows there are some here that could do with it. Then Veneziano hears the decorous little throat-clearing.

He turns around. Germany, Prussia, and Austria; and Veneziano feels like hell but they _look_ like it. Austria is the first to speak, in his soft Schönbrunner German, though it looks like a struggle to get all the words out. "Prussia. Germany. If I may speak to Veneziano privately…?"

Prussia nods curtly and nudges Austria's wheelchair forward. He gives Veneziano a look which speaks volumes; in this case the volume is entitled _You Ungrateful Little Shit: After I Fought a Whole War to Help You and Your Siblings Get a Nation You Can't Even Side With Me, Part I_. Then, he turns stiffly and limps away, Germany trailing after him (like the world's biggest gosling, Veneziano thinks, and stifles a little snort) and casting a look of his own over his shoulder. That one is much harder to read. Austria, meanwhile, does not look at Veneziano at all. Neither of them speak.

Eventually, the silence becomes unbearable, and Veneziano has to talk before he starts responding to whatever he imagines Austria might say soon. "If—if you wanted an apology for Vittorio Veneto, I won't." It comes out sounding like he is much closer to tears than he actually is, and Veneziano winces. Austria still says nothing, and Veneziano remembers how he had seemed at Monte Grappa, at the endless, fruitless battles of Isonzo. Small, yes, delicate, yes, out of place, yes. Veneziano had felt the same—never much for land battles, and especially not surrounded by the blasts of a new breed of war. _Shrunken_ , no.

When Veneziano had lost his empire, it had fallen piece by piece, nibbled away by Turkey and changing trade routes. He wonders how Austria must feel, losing it all in one blow.

Austria clears his throat again, in the particular way that he has. "I simply…simply wished to be sure that you were…doing as well as could be expected. Under the circumstances." He stares straight ahead, spindly fingers laced in his lap. A couple of them are splinted. Veneziano hadn't done that.

"Under the circumstances." Veneziano swings one of his legs back and forth, gently bouncing it off the box.

"Mm." He's actually—waiting. For an answer. Hello, Veneziano, we haven't had a conversation since before we went to war because you wanted all your land back from me, I used to own your heartland for seventy years, and now the entire political balance of Europe is destroyed, I no longer have an empire, and England would barely even give you Zara. How are you doing.

"…Bad." Veneziano stares at his knees, and then at Austria's hair. "Even under the circumstances." And then Austria actually looks at him.

Austria has always seemed older than Veneziano, even though all things considered they're probably the same age; the aging rates of nations are difficult to account for and Veneziano is the first example of that. But now, Austria actually looks _old_ , some huge tiredness pressing behind his eyes, and shrunken, and like the new century has all happened to him at once, very fast, with less warning even than everyone else had had. Veneziano, at least, had had the Futurists. Austria had had the skeleton of an empire, and musicians that Germany had told him Austria thought terribly difficult to listen to.

"Ah. That is…" Austria trails off for a second, almost lost. "…I am sorry."

Veneziano remembers screaming at Austria across the Piave, about Caporetto, about Trentino and Fiume. He remembers screaming at Austria through messy tears, _I'm not a Habsburg and you can't_ make _me_. (And France had been part of that, too, hadn't he, always there's France when Veneziano loses something.) It is his turn to say "Mm."

The silence falls again, wrapping around Veneziano's tongue. Slowly, Austria lifts a hand and rests it just slightly over Veneziano's own. The gesture is stilted and reserved—a single pat on Veneziano's shoulder when Austria finished playing a song, an order to rest, _considering recent events_ , while Austria swept and dusted and sorted.

Veneziano swallows, quiet sticking to his throat. Somewhere behind him, he can hear Prussia and Germany speaking to each other in tones too low and indistinct to make out. "It's not—not all of it is your fault, you know." Privately, Veneziano thinks rather a lot of it is, but—France. England. Russia. Turkey. Prussia. Germany, far too young and strong and idealistic for his own good (or anyone else's). Romano. Himself.

Austria smiles, the quick, tiny, almost invisible motion one that Veneziano has seen reflected in Prussia and Germany. "And that is, I suppose, all one can hope for in these times."

Veneziano nods. The fingers of Austria's other hand play over the wheelchair's armrest. They remain in silence and watch the light slowly dim on a Europe neither of them will see again.

* * *

The title comes from the first of Woodrow Wilson's 14 Points: "Open covenants of peace, openly arrived at, after which there shall be no private international understandings of any kind but diplomacy shall always proceed frankly and in the public view". Austria and Veneziano will get there someday.

Italy was promised several chunks of land around the Adriatic, as well as Austrian-held territories north of Friuli and a share in Germany and Turkey's overseas holdings, in exchange for joining the Allies. None of that panned out, except for parts of Trentino and the Dalmatian port of Zara; this became one of the causes célèbres of the Italian nationalist and fascist movements postwar. A decent amount of the promised territories used to be part of the Venetian empire.

In 1479, the First Ottoman-Venetian War ended. Little Venice probably bit diplomats on multiple other occasions as well. As Turkey said, he used to be a wild little kid.

Prussia participated in several small wars with Austria, partly to help with the Italian wars of independence, but also for their own reasons.

All battles mentioned were between Italy and Austria-Hungary. Vittorio Veneto was the last one, which the Italians won hard. Monte Grappa came before that, the Italians also won, though less hard. The Italians lost Caporetto incredibly hard, and nobody really won the eleven battles of the Isonzo (technically, the Italians won more than they lost, not counting the ones with "inconclusive" results) because it was a huge pile of shit in the mountains and everyone died (they produced half of the total Italian war casualties).

My personal stance on how the Chibitalia arc went isn't entirely canon-compliant (I think, it's been a while). Veneziano, in my interpretation, came under Austrian control with the Treaty of Campo Formio in 1797, and was stuck there until 1866, when Venice joined the kingdom of Italy. (He personally had probably jumped ship beforehand, under the idea that if he absolutely had to be Lombardy-Venezia then he'd rather be hanging out with Lombardy than Austria.) And one of my favorite moments in the Chibitalia strips (second possibly only to him kicking Turkey in the face) is the one where Austria takes over his chores after HRE goes away.


End file.
